Appeasement
by Joodiff
Summary: In which Grace samples a variety of European culinary delights, and Boyd's imagination nearly gets the better of him. Rated T for innuendo and language. 'Tis all Gemenied's fault. Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_**A/N:** This is entirely __Gemenied's fault. Entirely. She made me do it. And it should stand as a warning to all about the dangers of smartphone communication... who knew that fic challenges that result from pictures of foodstuffs could be so much fun? ;)_  
><em>Quickly written this afternoon and, I confess, completely un-Beta'd, so please forgive any mistakes.<em>

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><p><strong>Appeasement<strong>

by Joodiff

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><p>It's not xenophobia – he hates all these kind of markets with a deep and abiding passion whether they're continental or not. It doesn't matter to him how many different flags are fluttering in the light summer breeze, or what colours they are. He just hates it all on principle. Which Grace knows. But is deliberately choosing to forget. Or so Boyd thinks, until she gently offers him some appeasement. There are two notably successful ways for Grace to appease him – three if good whiskey is counted – but given that they are wandering a North London street and are surrounded by people of all ages, types and genders, she very wisely elects for installing him at one of the alfresco tables and going in search of food.<p>

Food is good. Sex would be better – though admittedly probably not there in the street in front of a stunned audience – but food is good. And Boyd is smart enough to know that if he plays his cards right his grudging tolerance will likely be handsomely rewarded later – and not with whiskey. Partially mollified, he stretches out his long legs and lounges in the bright sunlight, his thoughts a long, long way from the hideous sights, sounds and smells of the two-day market which he should allegedly be thoroughly enjoying. Privately, he doubts any of the stallholders are from anywhere more exotic than Romford, however many European languages are faintly detectable in the general chatter.

He smirks to himself at the pitiful sight of a cowed young man being roundly berated by his heavily made-up and heavily pregnant girlfriend, and winces at the ear-splitting volume the toddler they seem to already have in common manages to achieve. Youth is overrated, Boyd decides with a hidden and malevolent sort of glee. Been there, done that, as they say.

He spots Grace in the crowd, watches her with speculative interest as she threads her way back through the shifting mass of people. Good-looking woman, no question. Elegant, in her own quietly idiosyncratic way. Slim, sparky. Good legs. Great cleavage. His eyes linger on the cleavage in question, and he definitely doesn't miss the way the light, summery blouse-thing she's chosen for the day accidentally clings in all the right places as she moves. Probably, she's blissfully unaware of it, and that's good for Boyd because it means she's also blissfully unselfconscious. Finally, she spots him watching her, and she smiles as she approaches, her hands full of small, faintly crumpled paper bags.

He still hates these kinds of markets, but conversely if she's happy, he's happy. Usually. And she is very happy as she sits down and announces brightly, "Lunch."

Oh, yes, food is good. Or so Boyd thinks until the bitter truth that this is a _continental_ market finally dawns on him. With deep suspicion, he eyes each delicacy as it is lovingly revealed. Thirty-odd years a police officer, eating bacon rolls from roadside caterers trading from vehicles of dubious legality, and she expects him to eat… whatever it is she's proudly presenting to him. Not bothering to hide his antipathy, Boyd asks, "What the hell is that?"

Grace is still resolutely smiling. "_Andouillette_."

He grimaces. "It stinks to high heaven, Grace."

"Try it," she says patiently.

"Fuck that."

It's not a good start. Nor do matters improve with each subsequent offering. Stubbornly, he refuses to even taste most of what's on offer. Grace shakes her head at him in that superior, very Grace-like way that never fails to make his hackles rise. "You're so parochial, Boyd."

"I'm so bloody English," he says pointedly. "That's what I am. And what the fuck are those ball things?"

"_Quarkkeulchen_."

"Piss off, Grace. You just made that up."

She laughs. "You asked. It's not my fault just the thought of crossing the Channel makes you feel faint."

"Bollocks."

She shakes her head. "No, _Quarkkeulchen_. Though there is a passing similarity in shape and size, I grant you."

"Yeah, well you're not deep-frying _my_ nuts and covering them in sugar."

"Entrancing thought," Grace says, and then, as she delicately nibbles her prize, she gives him the kind of long-lashed, doe-eyed look that invariably does very bad things to his blood pressure without any additional provocation. And if he thinks she's happy to stop at that, he's very wrong. Grace Foley has a wicked streak in her, as he damn well knows, and she proves it by continuing to hold his gaze while very deliberately licking her lips.

It's too much for him. Almost. The summer sun is hot – but not as hot as the visions suddenly chasing through his head. The faded old Levis that seemed like such a good idea for a casual Saturday stroll are as unforgiving as her amused blue eyes, and Boyd finds himself involuntarily crossing his legs in a vain attempt to ease the increasing discomfort. And Grace, well, Grace just smirks knowingly and moves on to slowly licking the sugar from her fingers.

He's just a man. A poor, defenceless male with very little ability to defend himself from such a blatant offensive.

"They're very yummy," Grace says in an ingenuous sort of way as she helps herself to another of the doughy, sugary spheres.

He can't watch. Really, he can't watch. Resolutely he stares at the sky.

"Are you all right, Boyd?" Grace asks him solicitously. "Are you sure you don't want to try one?"

He risks a quick, narrow-eyed glance in her direction. Mistake. The very tip of her tongue is –

Boyd snaps to his feet with a speed and athleticism that quite obviously genuinely startles a passing group of teenagers – who knew that such an old guy could move so fast? – and snags her wrist firmly. "We're leaving."

"But I haven't finished my – "

"Balls."

"Quite. Where are we going?"

"Home."

"Home? Why?"

"There are two ways to a man's heart, Grace. And lunch isn't doing it for me."

She grins. Wickedly. Triumphantly. "Oh, I don't know…"

The thing about letting Grace think she's won is that once she stops being smug, her thoughts generally turn to appeasement. And food just isn't going to cut it. Not this time.

_- the end -_


End file.
